Tell Me
by tiannaweasley
Summary: Sirius tries to woo Remus by way of his favorite Muggle musical number, Singin' in the Rain, but realizes he may have set himself up for goofy failure. What if dance numbers aren't Remus's thing? Parts sappy, silly, and smutty.


Tell Me

Sirius tries to woo Remus by way of his favorite Muggle musical number, Singin' in the Rain, but realizes he may have set himself up for goofy failure. What if dance numbers aren't Remus's thing? Sappier than you may think. Xoxo Tianna

Thanks for the title inspiration, Grace.

And thank you, John, for the musical inspiration.

You're both wonderful.

1/26-29/2014

The candlelit Gryffindor common room is nearly empty. A soft blue light streams through a tall window and pours onto Remus Lupin hunched over the Transfiguration essay that he finished a week ago. It's due tomorrow at 9 am, but he just remembered that he forgot a whole paragraph's worth of supporting evidence. He almost never forgets things like that, seeing as the outline comes before the essay, it always does, but something had distracted him in between paragraph seven and the conclusion paragraph. That something had been singing, snapping large fingers, and looking so annoyingly handsome that Remus had totally forgotten to finish explaining his point about Grecian table legs.

Remus chews on his quill and wracks his brain to get into the groove of writing about the Transfiguration of table legs, frustrated that he now has about half a centimeter in which to squeeze said point. Remus's ears perk up as a gaggle of loud voices sounds outside the portrait hole. _Table legs_, he reminds himself, focusing on the crackling fireplace beside him and pressing long fingers into his temple. His legs are tucked underneath him and his toes dig into the puffy red cushion that almost swallows his lanky frame whole.

At least his friends are at dinner, so this time he doesn't have to be distracted by that awfully annoying yet wonderful mate of his who occasionally thinks he's a dog even when he's in human form, lapping at Remus's face whenever he feels like it because, "are you trying to deny your appetite-inspiring visage?" All of his friends – and the whole of Gryffindor house, apparently – are at the second to last dinner before O.W.L.s. The dinners leading up to O.W.L.s are said to be fantastic, almost better than holiday feasts. Remus reckons the house elves like to show off. Sirius doesn't care, as long as there's food. But Remus will be damned if he loses any points before O.W.L.s come around.

Remus mutters the last sentence of the second to last paragraph under his breath for the hundredth time in the past hour. _How the hell was I going to link this and table legs? _His teeth add more heavy marks into his quill that Lily always turns her nose up at. Remus feels his chest heating up like a furnace; this is so frustrating. He doesn't want to disappoint McGonagall: Prefects are supposed to get their essays done. Another part of him knows it's not a big deal and would McGonagall even notice? But no, of course she would, she's Minerva bloody McGonagall, and–

Several things happen at once. The portrait hole swings open, a loud banging noise follows, a gasp echoes in the corridor, and a booming voice shouts, "REEEEMUS LUU-PIN!"

"Watch the record player, mate?" a second voice squeaks.

"Yeah, watch the plecord rayer, mate," James Potter says through a sparkling smile, playfully shoving Sirius so he half-topples onto the squashy armchair across the room from Remus.

Remus heaves a sigh and looks up, fingers dropping from cradling his temple to massaging his neck.

"Moony!" James shouts as Sirius lunges up off his splayed position on the armchair and tackles James onto the sofa a couple yards away from Remus. The miniature red record player James was holding skids onto the nearby table.

"Not –" _right now_, Remus finishes silently a couple moments later as Sirius bounds toward him and jumps onto the sofa next to Remus. More like _on _Remus, practically, as his leg crushes Remus's thigh and Remus wonders whether it's scientifically accurate that his ability to breathe should have just disappeared.

Remus's quill goes flying. He wishes there was a spell that would glue his eyes to that second to last paragraph no matter what nonsense was going on around him. Stupid, enticing nonsense.

"What is this, Moony?" Sirius asks, and wraps an arm around Remus's tense shoulders. Remus sighs and wonders if he should even continue attempting to focus. He breathes in and Sirius's cologne wafts right at him. Remus holds his breath, stiffly swallowing the leathery scent.

"Transfiguration," Remus blurts out weakly.

"Perfect timing! I haven't even started mine. Help me out?" Sirius asks, raising his thick eyebrows hopefully.

Remus lets out a short laugh. "You really want to work on Transfiguration now?"

Sirius frowns and pretends to think about it for a second. "Well, very tempting and all… but, no." He jumps up abruptly and takes long strides towards Peter and James, who are now wrestling on the sofa. Remus sighs, sets his parchment aside, and makes the long couple steps to retrieve his fallen quill. It's admittedly pretty difficult to go back to poring over the same sentence in the same position he's been in for the past hour, but Remus is determined to squeeze Grecian table legs in there somewhere. It doesn't even have to be in the second to last paragraph anymore. Just somewhere.

But his friends don't seem to think this is a good course of action. Remus tries his hardest not to glance across the room where he can tell they're watching him. He tells himself he doesn't want to join, because why would he, when he has this bloody essay to finish?

"Oi, Moony!" James calls. "Writing to your secret lover?" He sets what is presumably Peter's record player down on the table in the middle of the common room.

"Moony, who's your secret lover?" Peter asks through a toothy grin.

Remus tries to train his head to stay down. Just a couple sentences, and he can join these idiots.

"McGonagaaall," Sirius croons, making smacking kissy noises from behind the large stone pillar in the center of the room. Remus doesn't want to know exactly what his lips are up against.

"Shut up," Remus mutters, raising his quill to his paper. Maybe actually touching the quill to parchment will trick his brain into remembering his grand idea.

James calls, "You might look quite good with ol' McG–"

"Hey, Moony," Sirius cuts him off. Remus looks up just in time to catch a Butterbeer zooming straight at his head.

"Way to nearly knock me out, Padfoot," Remus complains, clutching the Butterbeer gratefully. Maybe he'll just have one sip… no. No, he's so close to finishing…

"Well if you were knocked out, Moony, you wouldn't be bothered with McGonagall's dirty work." Sirius raises his eyebrows and inclines his head as if he's said something awfully clever.

"Dirty work which you should all be doing," Remus shoots back, eyes down on the second to last paragraph once more. He clings onto the Butterbeer. His statement seems to go over their heads. James and Peter are leaning across each other in front of the record player.

"Just one song," James pleads, knocking Peter's hand aside.

"I don't know what's on there," Peter mumbles.

James raises an eyebrow and lowers his voice. "Did your parents owl you a record of sexy slow jams?"

"Knowing old Marcia Pettigrew," Sirius laughs, "maybe."

"Moony's working," Peter tries again.

James laughs. "Celestina Warbeck? She's not so bad." Peter doesn't dignify him with an answer. "Moony's got McG's essay done. He's just being a git."

Remus looks up at James. "Love you too, Prongs. Seriously, just one more sentence."

He hasn't written a thing. Were Grecian table legs worth ignoring his friends? Only a couple days until O.W.L.s, and here they were, parchments untouched, and a record player… now playing some kind of piano.

"What _is _this?" James askes, eyes wide. He stares at the record player as if it might spring out and bite him.

"You were fine with it a minute ago," Peter laughs, shaking his head.

"Yeah, but it wasn't playing this ghastly tune a minute ago," James finishes a Butterbeer and reaches for another bottle from Peter's bag.

"That's not a ghastly tune," Sirius cries. "That's Singin' in the Rain!"

The room falls silent.

Remus looks up. "Singin' in the Rain?" he repeats.

"Do do do do! Do do do do do DO DO," Sirius sings, shimmying forward toward Remus.

"Oh, Merlin," Remus mutters, ducking his head as Sirius approaches. He thinks he should be better adapted to Sirius's strange outbursts of song and dance by now, but it's fifth year and they still make his face hot. He can't even explain it to himself, let alone to Lily at one of their study sessions…

"Padfoot, how do you even know–" Peter squeals. Remus doesn't dare glance up because he is well aware that the horrified expression he knows is on Peter's face will make him crack up. And then his _I'm not listening I'm really not listening I don't care _act will be shattered.

Sirius ignores him and continues to sashay forward, kicking his legs out randomly.

"A very good Gene Kelly impression," Peter squeaks.

Remus can hear James cackling with laughter on the opposite sofa, probably wondering what the hell is going on, and he can also feel Sirius getting closer and closer. Sirius's eager monkey limbs flail a couple feet away and Remus thinks surely that isn't what he remembers of Singin' in the Rain.

"I'm siiiiingin in the rain," Sirius belts along with jingling notes drifting from the record player, twirling and tapping his feet on the plush gold common room rug. A horn sounds and Remus can see Sirius doing some empathic widespread pose from the corner of his eye. No, he is totally not going to look up–

Sirius snatches Remus's parchment. Remus's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest before Sirius sets the essay gently down on the sofa. Remus chews on his lip and raises his eyebrows, looking up into Sirius's warm face that's moving gradually closer. He gives off a faint scent of treacle tart and Remus is sorry he skipped dinner all because of that second to last paragraph.

"I'll waaaalk down the lane," Sirius sings along, and tosses his black robes onto the rounded table in the middle of the common room. He throws his undone scarlet and gold tie after them and hikes up his trousers, bending over before Remus. He holds out a hand. Peter and James look on with horror and tears of laughter, respectively, as Remus hesitates.

"Sirius," he says, and shakes his head. "What in the bloody hell are you–"

"–With a haaaappy refrain," Sirius continues loudly, lowering his hand and twirling away from Remus and back.

"You're just so dreamy," Remus says breathily, and he can't hold back his laughter anymore. His mouth splits into a wide grin as he takes in Sirius's oxford shirt with the top buttons undone, his black trainers, and his shaggy hair flopping around as he tries a tap dance that admittedly could be worse.

"Don't I know it?" Sirius waggles his eyebrows, and approaching Remus, grabs his hand and pulls him from the squashy sofa. The Butterbeer rolls back onto the sofa and Remus nearly trips getting to his feet, sore from his Transfiguration essay position. He attempts to hold eye contact with Sirius to show him that he is truly not bothered by this impromptu study break, but Sirius's eyes are on their clasped hands. By the time Sirius has Remus twirled around and waltzing in the opposite direction, Peter's bag is slouched against the other sofa, but Peter and James are nowhere to be found. _Just siiiiingin in the rain…_

"Isn't this Peter's – what are they –" Remus splutters. One of Sirius's large hands clumsily grips the middle of Remus's back and the other envelops Remus's slender hand with a heat that's clammy but not unwelcome.

"You're going to be my umbrella," Sirius decides mock huskily. He turns to face Remus and grabs his shoulders. The music plays on cheerily from the record player behind them. Remus feels like he's been transported back a couple decades, and he wonders for a split second what it would be like to dance like this with Sirius on a sidewalk in 1952. He can't help the smile that spreads across his face at the thought of a greaser Padfoot.

He snaps back. "Like hell I am," he blurts out, and Sirius lets out a bark of laughter. Then he shakes hair out of his face and rolls his eyes.

"Obviously a joke, Kathy. Where've you been?"

Remus reaches out to punch Sirius on the arm but Sirius intercepts it, grabbing his fist with rough fingers and smoothing out his clammy palm. He stares at Remus for several seconds, ignoring the tinny sounds of Gene Kelly tapping through the record player. Remus swears that Sirius's eyes flicker down to Remus's parted lips that are quirked in bewilderment, but maybe he's just tired from staring at that damn parchment all night. Remus's heart speeds up as Sirius takes a step toward him and surveys him from under his eyebrows, dark eyes boring into Remus's and looking straight through him. Remus always feels exposed when he's with Sirius. Sometimes it makes him feel raw and wonderful and alive, but other times he just feels naked and small and undesirable, and he doesn't know how one obnoxious, attention-seeking Gryffindor boy has these effects on him. Maybe it's the music. Remus likes a lot of Muggle musicals, but he hasn't thought about them or watched them in what seems like forever. It's like Sirius is prying open his childhood and–

Sirius breaks the warm contact between their hands and eyes and strikes a gigantic diagonal pose, his arms thrown out at odd angles and his feet tapping away – if stepping in random patterns on a large plush rug counts as tap dancing. He gives the common room ceiling a huge, absurd smile as he prances around Remus. While standing behind him, he pulls Remus's wand from his pocket and points it at a quill on a nearby end table. By the time he slow motion jaunts around to face Remus again, he's bowing with a newly transfigured top hat. Remus tips his head back and groans.

"Sirius, you are the most ridiculous person I've ever known."

"Yeah, but doesn't this top hat make me look dashing?" Sirius gives an exaggerated open-mouthed wink, and horizontally grips Remus's wand, tapping around messily behind it. If this was his attempt at seducing Remus, it's not working. Except by flailing around the common room he's left Remus completely at a loss for words, and maybe that's true seduction. Getting away from that parchment for a handful of outlandish seconds from 1952.

"Right, sure, yes. Anyway, it was a fedora, not a top hat," Remus says, crossing his arms. He watches as Sirius kicks his shoes off and sightlessly tosses them backward. Remus doesn't even know why he's trying not to laugh at Sirius's flailing and tapping and walking in circles and bouncing his shoulders up and down and lunging, but it's impossible to keep a straight face. He is not lithe by any means, but – damn. He can't look at this boy, this stocky, ludicrous, wild eyed, enthusiastic, jumping jellybean of a boy with his shock of unfairly glossy hair – and _not_ want to snog the pants off of him. Or – smile. Right, that's what it was. Just smiling.

"Whatever," Sirius mouths as he jumps toward Remus again, rubbing a hand along Remus's back, and the sensation goes straight to Remus's belly. He isn't _trying _to be turned on by Sirius Black dancing to Singin' in the Bloody Rain, but goddamn it, it's happening anyway. The way Sirius moves is unreasonable. His body is annoyingly, imperfectly perfect. His shirt rises up more than once to reveal his smooth, pale belly and Remus head goes fuzzy. No matter how hard Remus stares at his second to last paragraphs and his Prefect forms, no matter how hard he tries, he is barely in control of anything, and he hates it. But when it comes to Sirius, not being in control makes him feel hyper aware, and not in the I have to finish this essay right now sense, but in the free, oh my everloving fuck Sirius Black is dancing to Singin' in the Rain and giving me bedroom eyes we could go anywhere we could leave right now and go to Hogsmeade even though it's near bed time and soon Gryffindors will be filing through the portrait hole from dinner, type of way. He doesn't care what happens in this silly, sexy, senseless moment; he's with Sirius and Sirius is with him. Sirius knows he's being stupid and he knows Remus likes it and otherwise why would he –

Remus lets out a stream of giggles as Sirius jumps up and down erratically. It's as if the common room floor is a trampoline or Sirius is splashing in puddles on a sidewalk somewhere in Hollywood. He doesn't care where the hell he is; the whimsical music and Sirius jumping up and down like a deranged frog on electrified lily pads makes the background fall away. Armchairs, end tables, stone walls, tapestries, candles, fireplace, unsavory parchment, tall windows – they all disappear and it's just Sirius being bonkers and bizarrely handsome. But he's not handsome in the smoldering, he's-so-my-type, swooning kind of way that the majority of Hogwarts girls from every house find him. Come to think of it, if there was ever a time of ultimate house unity, this would be it, and Sirius Black would be the president. King of being fit.

But that isn't how Remus sees him. He's the boy who maddens Remus by never finishing assignments but casts almost all the spells regardless. He's the boy who cuddles up against him when he has nightmares of Greyback. He's the one who promised with clear, honest eyes that he'd never tell a soul about the time Remus wet the bed third year because he dreamed Greyback came for James and Sirius and Peter. "That's what we're here for, mate," Sirius murmured against Remus's shoulder that first terrifying night when he was the only one who jolted awake when Remus woke up thrashing. He said '_we're_', but Remus noticed that James and Peter never laid next to him and stroked his arm in his four-poster. Not that he ever wanted them to.

Sirius looks up and holds Remus's wand over his head as if shielding himself from rain: "Just siiiingin' in the rain," he belts, his voice cracking halfway through. Remus watches and laughs and shakes his head, but his eyes are glazed over with the memories of the first night Sirius crawled into his bed.

Greyback snarled and lunged at Sirius. Remus sat bolt upright, screaming and gripping the mattress. His wide eyes fell on his blankets in a knot at his feet. "Moony?" Sirius whispered harshly through the pitch black, and seconds later he was kicking the blankets to the floor and taking the role of Remus's duvet. In the two years since, Remus hasn't stopped thinking of Sirius as the one who's just supposed to be there for him. Naturally. No matter how loudly he blows raspberries when he's run out of ideas to fill in those last three inches of a foot long essay or when Remus corrects his grammar. No matter how often he checks out girls in the corridors on their way to class, because Remus notices he doesn't do it when James isn't there. No matter how often he got Remus in trouble for lobbing levitating notes into his head during History of Magic.

Remus can't hear a note of the song as he watches Sirius's dance wind to a close. He thinks of how it makes sense that he knows Sirius so differently from the others. Not a different Sirius, exactly, but the girls in the corridor that compliment his shaggy dark mop don't know that he rolls out of bed in the morning and looks a mess; a mess with hair all tousled onto one side with puffy eyes and a wrinkly unbuttoned shirt and sweatpants that smell three weeks unwashed and still looking so bloody fine. And he still wants to dance for Remus and splash in invisible puddles and maybe he'd cuddle him even when there are no nightmares and grab his back when he's not dancing to musical numbers and –

"and dancin' iiin the rain," Sirius sings along, and hums the rest of the notes along with the pitter patter of his socked feet that have grown too tired to carry out the rhythm. He looks up and sees Remus watching him, his smile fading as the last note rings out softly.

"Moony, what the hell," Sirius says, setting his hands on his hips.

"What?" Remus says and frowns, trying to remember how to shove away thoughts of Sirius's warm arms snaking around him and down his back.

Sirius furrows his brow. "You didn't see the grand finale."

"Yeah, no, it was-"

"Don't lie, Moony. You were dreaming up the last sentence of that essay. I'm over here tap dancing on a shag carpet and you're thinking about an essay. Pffft." Remus wants to say it's not actually shag carpet, but he bites his tongue. As Sirius sets his top hat down and shakes his head bitterly, a couple second year girls waltz in and eye the boys up and down before they ascend the girls' staircase. The room falls silent as Remus tries not to snort at Sirius's affronted expression. Before the girls close the heavy wooden door behind them, a series of giggles floats down the stairwell.

Remus shrugs. "They would've liked it."

"You missed out on a work of art," Sirius says, leaning against the table behind him. "I'm telling you."

"I assure you I saw it all perfectly well," Remus replies, hands in his pockets. "I didn't know you knew musicals."

"What can I say, Gene Kelly-whatsit was a looker," Sirius says in a flat voice. He shrugs. A high-pitched laugh escapes Remus and the corner of Sirius's mouth twitches. "He's like a Muggle version of you."

Remus snorts. "I do not look a thing like Gene Kelly."

"Are you knocking my compliment, mate? I dunno, he looks pretty bookish. And he's got that twinkling smile."

Remus sits down on the rounded table next to Sirius, who is exuding heat from his musical work out session. He glances down at his hand and Sirius's thigh. There are approximately five and a half inches between them.

"Twinkling smile?" Remus repeats through an enormous grin. "What, am I Dumbledore?"

Only one of Sirius's deep gray eyes is visible through his shaggy hair as he looks up at Remus then. A mischievous grin crosses his lips as he looks over at a random spot on Remus's sweater near his belly. He looks like he might let out a bark of laughter, or keep singing, or maybe puke. But he just sits there, leaning over, elbows resting on his knees, body twisted slightly toward his friend. His hair falls into his face like it always does and Remus reaches out to push it back so he can gauge what Sirius is thinking. Remus's hand only makes it halfway to Sirius's hair, however, before it falters and falls into his lap again quietly. There's no air left in the room. It's a cycle of oxygen that's quickly running out. Sirius breathes out. Remus breathes in. Sirius ignores Remus's awkward lifeless hand and stares at the fibers that make up Remus's warm sweater under which his heart hammers and he sweats profusely. Remus could pierce the silence with a blunt quill. He swallows. Opens his mouth. Draws in a breath.

"Moony, let me ask you something," Sirius says, a grin flashing on his face. As if the room wasn't suddenly devoid of oxygen and Remus's pounding heart hadn't taken the award from Singin' in the Rain for Loudest Noise Ever Made in Gryffindor Common Room.

"Okay," Remus said, but it came out as a choked whisper, and the 'kay' never really made it up his throat.

"When you – when we –" Sirius clears his throat and starts to reposition himself. Remus chews on his lip and his brow furrows in annoyance as Sirius turns to face the fireplace with his side facing Remus, no sliver of face to read.

Remus taps his fingers on the table and pulls one leg up to fold in front of him, the other dangling next to Sirius's foot. He sighs.

"What are you on about?"

"Am I the only one wh – You can't tell me – This is good, right?" Sirius manages. Remus has never seen him so flustered, except for – yeah, no, never. Sirius is an expert at keeping up a cool front, but here he is, falling apart and letting Remus feel like he's the suave one who can get away with whistling in the corridor at girls who he doesn't even want.

"It's good," Remus repeats slowly, swinging his dangling leg back and forth and waiting to hear more. The portrait hole opens and Remus's spine jolts up, twisting around to see who it is. A seventh year bloke and his girlfriend pass through to the boys' staircase, not even glancing at the two boys on the table.

When Remus looks back at Sirius, his fingers are kneading at his forehead. "I don't know what I'm doing," he whispers. Remus shoves his shoulder and Sirius groans.

"One minute you're a tap dancing maniac and the next you're a fetus. What the hell, Padfoot?" His leg swings faster beneath the table.

Remus's raised voice sparks something in Sirius and he sits up, inching closer to face Remus better. He takes a deep breath and Remus's chest freezes up. Then… nothing.

"Just tell me–" Remus starts, but he's cut off.

"I just wanted to say – I mean, I – like, Moony, you're bloody… stupid. You're stupid, no, fuck, _I'm_ stupid, I'm stupid for saying this, I'm not saying this at all, maybe it's a dream, maybe this is a dream. God, I'm saying this, because you are stupidly real and it's ridiculous that I haven't done this yet and I'm sorry and when I laugh with you and tap dance and make a fool of myself and pass you notes in class and get you in trouble I wonder what you're thinking, are you thinking about your essays or your Muggle novels or chocolate or maybe that you'd rather be fake sick at Madam Pomfrey's because she's really quite a looker? What the hell goes on in your brilliant bloody brain when you see me pulling this? I know you better than James, better than treacle tart, I… I know your favorite color is blue and you'd do anything for your friends and you like me there when that wanker shows up in your dreams, and…" Sirius inhales the remaining oxygen in the suddenly stuffy room and swallows and continues. "You never run a hand through your hair unless you're exasperated enough to kill a bloke because you spend bloody forever fixing it in the morning, but what the hell do you think of on Prefect duties? Do you write people up and think '_that's something Padfoot would do_,' or do you think '_ugh, not that tosser again, he's a git like Sirius is a git_,' like, Moony, where do you go when you're not studying and having nightmares and laughing with us while secretly being annoyed or being annoyed with us while actually thinking we're brilliant or, what do you – I want to know, I want–"

Warm lips silence Sirius's strained voice.

"Mmh." Remus grabs Sirius by his collar and pushes him sideways against the pillar behind them. They half-lean, half-sit, and the awkward strain goes unnoticed as Remus quiets Sirius's blabbering with hard, open mouthed kisses that warm a cold-sweat Sirius from the inside. Remus's thoughts fly out the tall windows around them as Sirius's tongue presses rough against his and blood rushes to his head. Remus's fingers reach up to grab Sirius's temple and droop distractedly; his thumb lingers on Sirius's chin as he leans in and breathes in the heat-stubble-treacle tart. This is real; this is happening, and fucking finally, too–

Sirius pushes back against Remus and, speechless now, he sighs into Remus's mouth and presses smooth lips against smooth lips, heat emanating from both of them and rising up to form a frenzied cloud above their heads. Sirius pulls on Remus's tie and tugs him closer, closer damn it, he's not close enough, and Remus understands and kneels over Sirius, his nose pushing carelessly into Sirius's cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. Sirius's eyebrows knit together a bit and he lets his head fall back under Remus's mouth, chin tilted upward and eyes closed. His breath hitches and he swallows hard.

His arm feels like jelly as he brings a weak hand up to rest on Remus's thigh, and what is he thinking, he can't just rest his hand on Remus's thigh, he has to grab it and kneel up on the table with him just to try to get closer, he wants to be up against Remus and no–

"Clothes," Sirius mumbles.

"Mm?" Remus nuzzles Sirius's neck and plants neat little kisses down his jaw line.

"Too many clothes," Sirius groans.

"I know," Remus says through a smile, and breathless, his trousers tighten as he gazes down into Sirius's eyes alight with triumph. Sinewy arms trail down Remus's sides as their lips brush gently and Sirius pulls back a bit. Their breath mingles and makes Remus dizzy and Sirius's leathery cologne really isn't helping. Closer, Remus thinks, and then there's nothing between them but clothes, and there is nothing else, just the warmth of Sirius's mouth and the slide of his tongue and his rough fingers pulling at Remus's back and hips and the rush of pleasure Remus has only ever felt alone, sometimes picturing something rather like this, and Sirius quakes beneath him and his knees buckle and he whimpers and–

The portrait hole swings open. Creaks on its hinge.

"Where's my Gene – Merlin's left _tit_," comes a loud voice, and the boys whip their heads around to see James and Peter crawling through the portrait hole.

Peter looks like he's seen a ghost, but his face lights up upon James's shout of laughter and requests for high fives.

"Did we interrupt?" Peter asks softly, and Sirius gives a halfhearted bark of laughter as he high fives James.

"Not at all," Remus says, and looks down at Sirius's knee still pushed up against his thigh. _Too many clothes, _he agrees, and stands up to drag Sirius by the sweaty hand out of the open portrait hole. They're gone before James and Peter can get another word in. "I wonder what you're thinking," Remus says heavily as the arched door swings shut behind them.

Sirius blinks. "I'm thinking of you in my bed, preferably shirtless and–"

"I mean, when I'm alone, while I'm studying, when I'm on Prefect duties, in class. I wonder what you're thinking when you're doing… stuff, too. I wonder what you think, too," Remus shrugs. _That sounded better in my head_, he adds silently.

Sirius grins unevenly and pushes Remus up against the cool stone wall, pinning his arms on either side of his head. Sirius is hot against him as he slides a knee between Remus's thighs and leans forward to tug on his lip with his teeth. "I think of you," Sirius says, and closes any space left between them with a wet, breathy kiss. He gives a signature lick, although this time it's up Remus's neck and he's nibbling on his earlobe and Remus is gasping. He ducks a firm hand under Remus's shirt and mutters, "I think of this."


End file.
